221Baroque
by caelum-et-infernum
Summary: "So, when they both return home tonight, high off of the glory of another case solved, and John finds that his quiet evening is going be ruined by that infernal violin, he will pretend that he doesn't mind." /Analytic piece with little plot but a whole lot 'a heart. Includes our beloved protagonists, a dead body, and Sgt Donovan's wandering mind. Can read as slash or friendship.


Disclaimer: If it's somebody else's, then it ain't mine, yeah?

Two days in a row - this is me being dangerously productive. First Sherlock fic, this one is a quickie.

As always I'd really love to know what you think. Critiques appreciated, conversely, let me know which bits you liked. (Even if you just copy and paste a sentence, it helps for me to know what's good!) :)

Please review and enjoy! (Not in that order though)

caelum-et-infernum out, bitchessssss.

* * *

Picture this: it's a normal day in South-East London; the sky is overcast and there is a corpse on the pavement.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson cast shadows over the stony features of the late professor Charleston, who, unlike the equally stony-faced members of Scotland Yard, did not make it to work this morning. Sergeant Sally Donovan envies him slightly – Sherlock is probably much easier to deal with when you're dead.

Poor John, there's no escape for him. Sally finds comfort in the fact that she can return home after a hard day at work and pretend that Sherlock Holmes does not exist. She can't begin to imagine what it must be like to live in the veritable hell on earth that goes by the name of 221b.

John seems to be coping well though, and sometimes even appears to be enjoying his strange lifestyle. Perhaps Sherlock keeps John sedated by drugging his tea. Sally wouldn't put it past the self-diagnosed sociopath, (high-functioning, mind!)

Aforementioned sociopath is sniffing the icy palm of the cadaver, and Sally has to fight the urge to vomit when she notices the tip of his tongue make contact with the dead man's flesh. Sherlock seems satisfied with his findings however; he stands at full height ready to circle the body like a large, featherless vulture. He spares a cursory glance towards his colleague (read – _friend_) to catch him mid-eye-roll, and subsequently, eerily pupil-less.

They both move around the body; it's an intricate dance that would admittedly be more impressive without the presence of our dead friend, the prof, although his rigid body is an interesting centre-piece at least.

Sally feels as though she knows both the doctor and the detective fairly well. Consequently, she finds the dynamic of their relationship intensely confusing. Juxtaposed against the harsh reality of London's latest (but certainly not last) victim, she can really appreciate their stark contrasts.

Sherlock is sharp, in pretty much every sense of the word. Sharp wit, sharp tongue, sharp suit; Sherlock is the human embodiment of hostility. John represents comfort. He is fluffy jumpers, warm fires and the scent of milky tea. Of course, what Sally doesn't realise is that maybe she doesn't know them that well at all.

In Sherlock's mind, John isn't so much soft, as more the blunt instrument to his own hypodermic needle; both dangerous, but one is volatile while the other is subtle.

But of course, John Watson has an entirely different viewpoint, all of his own. He imagines himself as a rock and Sherlock as a river. The rocks keep the river together, and prevent it from melting away into the earth. Also, the river, over time, will erode the rocks – John feels that his constant fatigue is testament to this. It's only when John is feeling truly sentimental that he will acquiesce, to himself, that he wouldn't have it any other way, because, much like the river does for the rocks, Sherlock gives him a purpose.

So, when they both return home tonight, high off of the glory of another case solved, and John finds that his quiet evening is going be ruined by that infernal violin, he will pretend that he doesn't mind. Because it's Sherlock, and no matter how much of a pain in the arse he is, he is _his _pain in the arse and that's that really.

So, later, when Sherlock plays that screeching, staccato melody that John believes is fabricated with the sole intent to disturb in mind, he simply smiles at Sherlock and offers to make him a cup of tea.

The sound of the suffering instrument is joined by the clinking of spoons in mugs, and John can't help but think that, if he and Sherlock were a song, it would sound a little something like this.

* * *

Don't u leave without reviewing I WILL FIND U. xoxo


End file.
